So I'm happily warbling "Minnie the Moocher" in the shower this morning, all awake and fluffy because I dreamt all night that I was writing and anxiously checking my word count every couple of pages and by the time I woke up I'd gotten 15,000 words knocked out and I felt accomplished, even if it was only a dream, and I trip merrily out to the living room to go to work and see the spousal unit sitting on the couch, clutching his skull in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Said spousal unit cracks one eyelid at me and says, "I know you're happy because you're writing, but could you please save the singing in the shower for the weekends? The sound traveled right through the walls and into my brain." Ha, like it's my fault he stayed up way too late studying arcane algorithms and thus was not sufficiently prepared for my joyous state this fine a.m. Yeah, I know all those words are still in my head instead of scribbled in pixellated ink, but I'm clinging to the illusion... besides, he'd rather live with The Laughing Girl than with who I was a year ago at my old job in Hell's 17th Circle ;->

*cross-posted to InkBlog - read it and weep for me*

W00t! I just reserved a secret room for a secret weekend in November where I can sneak away and write! I'm gonna get at least, oh... three pages written there. Um, I should add a zero to that count, huh?

Thanks to Neil Gaiman for linking to Nick Lowe's essay on The Well-Tempered Plot Device. All my concerns about writing a well-constructed novel for NaNoWriMo are hereby laid to rest.

*cross-posted to InkBlog - read it and weep for me*